


Free Pie in Studio B

by editingatwork



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Baking Show AU, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 08:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15311190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: Jack's not sure which is sweeter, the pie or the baker. (No, it's definitely the baker.)





	Free Pie in Studio B

Some production assistant with more headgear than a teenager at the orthodontist’s sticks his head in the dressing room door and nearly scares the shit out of Jack.

“Free pie in Studio B!” he says—shouts, really—and ducks back out of the room.

Jack hears him down the hall, yelling at some other poor soul: “Ted, free pie in Studio B!”

“Oh shit!” someone replies, presumably Ted. “It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”

Jack checks a calendar on the wall. It is indeed Wednesday. He’s not sure what that has to do with free pie.

“Jack!” Another person has stopped by Jack’s room, this time someone he knows. It’s Martha, the PA who was assigned to him when he arrived on set this morning. She’d noticed his nervousness right away and has been a godsend helping Jack navigate the surprisingly complicated task of giving a 10 minute interview for a local news station. Jack’s interview is over, so he’s in the process of preparing to go home.

“Hi, Martha,” he says.

“Jack, there’s free pie in Studio B.”

Jack blinks. “Okay?”

Martha waves for him to get up until he does. “Do you like pie?”

Jack shrugs. “I guess. What’s this about?”

“Just follow me.”

So Jack does. The local news is in Studio A, and it’s a short walk down some hallways to Studio B. Arriving on set is disorienting, because it’s like walking into a totally different building. Studio A had all the usual trappings of a news set: big desks, green screens, monitors, and a space for interviews like the one Jack had done. Studio B, on the other hand, is like walking directly into someone’s joint living room and kitchen. It’s decorated with modern colors in a distinctly old-fashioned Southern style, but has enough shiny appliances to show that when it comes to cooking, this kitchen means  _business_.

And it smells  _amazing._ Like butter and sugar and vanilla and strawberry and peach.

It’s also very crowded, particularly around the kitchen’s enormous marble counter.

“What is this?” Jack asks.

“ _Just Peachy_ ,” Martha says. “It’s a baking show. You’ve never heard of it?”

Jack shakes his head. “No, sorry.”

“Well, it’s ridiculously popular. Eric, the baker, he got started here in Providence and when the show took off he could have gone anywhere—New York, LA, Atlanta. But he’s stuck around, stayed local, and that means that every time he tapes a show, there’s free food.” She grins. “Come on. He did pies today. They’re his specialty, and they’re  _to die for_.”

Jack hesitates, because the season is starting soon and that means paying careful attention to his nutrition and answering to the Falcs nutritionist, Nate, if he deviates from his meal plan. But the room smells  _so good_ , and he hasn’t had lunch yet, and his stomach is growling, and... One slice can’t hurt.

Jack follows Martha to the counter. There are three half-eaten pies sitting out, and a mountain of dirty plates and forks in the sink. People are eating and chatting about how good the food is. Dead center in all this hubbub is the shortest, blondest, handsomest person with the brightest smile Jack has ever seen.

“Eric,” Martha says, “this is Jack. He was taping an interview with us in Studio A.”

Eric looks at Jack and his eyes go wide. “Jack Zimmermann! Wow, hello!” He starts to hold out a hand for Jack to shake, but notices that there’s flour on it and wipes it on his apron. The apron is dark blue and already covered in white smears. “Lord, I’m such a mess. If I ever thought I’d be lucky enough to shake your hand, this is  _not_  how I pictured it.”

Jack can’t help smiling. “It’s fine.” He shakes Eric’s hand, which is surprisingly strong for being so small. “So, this is your cooking show?”

“Baking show,” Eric corrects. “I try my hand at casseroles and pizzas every now and again, for variety, but my heart’s always been in whipping up dessert.” He gestures to the pies. “You wanna try one?”

Jack really, really does. “Um. What’s good?”

Someone nearby asks, “What’s  _not_  good?” through a mouthful of pie, and those gathered laugh.

Eric’s smile gentles in the face of Jack’s indecision. “I’ve got peach-strawberry, blueberry cream cheese, and raspberry-lemon.”

It all sounds really good. “Um. Peach-strawberry.”

“Good choice.” Eric cuts the pie with the sort of deft precision that Jack is used to seeing from his teammates on the ice. Under the apron, Eric is wearing a plaid button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are defined, and even under everything, the breadth and definition of his shoulders is obvious. Jack feels himself getting warm under the collar as Eric hands him the pie.

The very big slice of pie.

Jack opens his mouth to protest that it’s nearly preseason, and he really shouldn’t—but Eric winks. “I won’t tell your nutritionist if you don’t.”

Jack is too socially inept to tell whether a person is flirting with him, so to hide his embarrassment, he takes a bite of the pie.

“Well?”

The crust is soft and flaky and rich with butter, yet still it seems to melt in his mouth. Warm peaches and sweet strawberries swim in a sea of honey, nutmeg, and cinnamon. It tastes like waking up on a summer Sunday morning.

Jack... might make a little noise in the back of his throat.

Everyone around him laughs.

“Yeah,” Martha chuckles. “That’s normal.”

Very soon, the pies all get eaten, and people trickle out of the studio. Jack had eaten his pie slowly, to savor it, but also to spend more time with Eric. Once Jack admits that he doesn’t mind talking about hockey, Eric peppers him with technical questions about the upcoming season. Jack finds out that Eric played hockey in high school, and even considered getting a scholarship to play in college. But ultimately decided against it.

“So you didn’t even apply?” Jack asks. He’s currently eating a second, much smaller slice of pie; raspberry-lemon, this time. The mix of tart and sweet punches him in the taste buds and it’s delicious. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—I’m sure you had a good reason.”

Eric doesn’t look offended. “It’s fine. I really wanted to play hockey, and I think I was good enough for a team, but... it’s the checking. My high school team was no-contact, and an NCAA team, playing full-contact...” He laughs, lightly and a touch self-deprecating. “Well, let’s just say that based on my experience with a few accidental hits in high school, I would have been more of a liability than an asset on a D1 team.” He rinses a massive glass mixing bowl and puts it aside. He’s almost finished cleaning the dishes he’d used for his cooking show. Jack wonders what’ll happen when he’s done. Probably Eric will change and go home, which means it will be time for Jack to go home. He can’t stay here much longer, anyway, he’s got practice later this evening.

He can’t bring himself to walk away from this kitchen before Eric, though. It’s rare that he enjoys talking to a new person so much.

“I’m not sure about that,” Jack replies. He takes a bite of pie, chews, and swallows. He’s eating it as slowly as he dares. “If you’re a good player, a mental block shouldn’t be enough to count you out. You just need a good coach or teammate to help you work through it.”

Eric smiles. “Like you, Mr. Samwell Men’s Hockey Captain?”

“Oh god, no,” Jack says immediately. “I was—pretty awful, in college.”

“Leading your team to the Frozen Four three years in a row is ‘awful’?”

“I mean as a person,” Jack says. It’s mortifying to recall the way he used to act, but he’s trying to be better than that. All his college friends—Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, Holster—made him want to be better. Being a Falconer makes him want to be better, too. “I don’t know why the team voted for me. I wasn’t a good leader.”

“Well, I think the point is that they did vote for you, right?” Eric reasons. “So you must have done something right.”

“I guess.” Jack doesn’t agree, but it does make him happy that someone as nice as Eric wants to believe the best of him. “Just count yourself lucky you weren’t on a team with me. I probably... wouldn’t have been the sort of captain you needed.”

Eric nods, slow and thoughtful. He dries the last whisk and puts it in a tall cup full of mixing spoons and spatulas. “Well, I only just met you today. And you seem pretty sweet, to me.”

Jack is definitely warm under the collar. It’s creeping into his cheeks, as well. “Thanks. I—thanks.”

“You’re most welcome.” Eric reaches for the plate in Jack’s hands. “Here, let me get that for you.”

Jack realizes right then that he has finished eating the pie, and Eric has finished washing the rest of the dishes. Once the plate and fork are clean, there won’t be anything left to keep either of them hanging around.

“It was really delicious,” Jack says. “The pie, I mean. Both of them.”

“Thank you! I’m glad you liked them. If you’re ever back here on a Wednesday, be sure to drop by.”

“For sure.” Except Jack knows he probably won’t ever be back here, since TV interviews are rare for him. Desperation makes him blurt, “Can I get your number?”

Eric blinks at him. “My number? Why?”

“For pie,” Jack says. “One of my teammates, Alexei, his birthday is coming up and he really loves, uh, blueberry. I thought—maybe I could get him a pie. From you. I’d pay you,” he adds. It’s embarrassing how bad he’s fumbling his way through this. “Could you bake him one?”

“I... could do that,” Eric says slowly. “When is his birthday? I might not have time.”

“Oh. Um. January.”

“January,” Eric repeats. He might be smiling. “Jack, it’s September.”

He’s sinking faster than the Titanic. “I’m planning ahead.”

“Uh-huh.” Eric is definitely smiling. “Alright. I’ll give you my number.”

Jack reaches for his phone. He checks all his pants pockets and the one on his shirt. “Shit. I think I left it in the dressing room.”

Eric laughs and pulls out his own phone. “How about you give me your number, and I’ll text you mine?”

“Yeah, thanks. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” There’s a fond twinkle in Eric’s eye as he speedily types in the number that Jack gives him. “And just so you know, I won’t give this out to anyone. I wouldn’t violate your privacy like that.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Still. Just want you to know that.” Eric locks his phone and puts it back in his pocket.

Jack checks the time on his watch and sighs. “I should go. We have practice this evening and I need to go home first. And I still need to eat lunch.”

“Pie is lunch,” Eric says. “Here, I’ll show you out.”

“Thanks. And... sorry, but pie isn’t lunch food.”

Eric gasps. “Jack Zimmermann, how dare you blaspheme in my kitchen!”

“I mean it’s dessert, not  _real_ food,” Jack tries, which just makes Eric gasp again and clutch his chest.

“Oh, you just wait, Mr. Zimmermann. I’m going to make you something so healthy and delicious even you can’t say no, and you will  _literally_ eat your words.”

Jack laughs. “I can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> hey look i'm not dead. my tumblr might be a ghosttown but [you can still visit](http://punmasterkentparson.tumblr.com).


End file.
